Have another poem 40 kilograms:


Whose sprues are these on the windowsill?
This pot of Nuln Oil just spilled,
I swore I’d stop ... yet here I hover,
Clicking “Buy,” one more layer of clutter.

Who let this pot of Agrax run dry?
I swore, “No more shades till pigs fly,”
yet at 3 a.m. I hit “Add,”
because the last one dried up ... too bad!

Whose pile of shame is this? It’s mine.
Ten Termagants unpainted? Fine!
A Knight half-built, his face still bare,
Yet I’m stalking brand-new Sororitas flair!

There’s a stack of bases I don’t recall,
A drill whose bit’s too small, too tall.
A wet palette crusted shut with grey,
And still I whisper, “Just one more spray…”

Whose cubby’s crammed with decals?
Whose shelf bows under extra sprues?
Who needs four pots of Wraithbone white?
Apparently me. Every night.

There’s a sprue of Sisters I meant to build,
A box of Orks still shrink-wrapped filled
With dreams of dakka I’ll never run.
But eBay whispered: “Rare! Just one!”

Whose house is this? It’s mine, I know.
But Games Workshop keeps running the show.
I swear I’m done. I’ve got enough.
But look! New cultists! In gothic stuff!

So here I sit, beneath the heap,
My wallet thin, my backlog deep.
I whisper to the Emperor above:
“Just one more kit ... I swear! ...it’s love.”